He's Gone
by Cybra
Summary: It only took one second. Then, he was gone. *PG for character death. Completed!*
1. Phoebe

He's Gone  
By Cybra

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A/N: Since I'll be on vacation next Sunday, I decided to give you guys a little somethin' extra to make up for not having Chapter 9 out that weekend.

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Special Notes: This story includes a full name for Arnold. In tribute, I named him after James Mackintosh Qwilleran of The Cat Who… books since, to me, Arnold's future job may either be becoming an archeologist or a newspaper reporter. Also, I am assuming that the year Hey Arnold! takes place in is about 1997. So if you don't like it, tough.

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Disclaimer: Hey Arnold! isn't mine. And to those killjoys who like pretending to be lawyers, P

God, Fate, whoever's out there…

…that wasn't fair.

He's gone. In one split second, he's gone.

One of the paramedics who had tried to save him told us what happened the day afterward:

A weak blood vessel in his brain that there was no way to detect had exploded.

I can still remember that moment when he was snatched from us…

~One Week Ago…~

"Arnold, could you please go up to the board and work out this problem?" Mr. Simmons asks.

"Sure."

He rises from his seat and walks over to the chalkboard. He reaches for a piece of chalk, grabs it, and raises it to the write on the board. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I see Helga watching him closely as she sighs. Perhaps she has another poem in mind today.

I turn back to the chalkboard, ever studious, and then it happens.

Just when he's about to start writing, his head snaps back, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. His body is as stiff as a board.

"Arnold, are you all right?" Mr. Simmons asks, concerned.

He doesn't answer. He simply collapses to the floor.

Everybody's screaming. All I can do is stare at him lying on the floor. Mr. Simmons rushes over and tries to take a pulse, then begins performing CPR. Mr. Wartz comes in to see what the fuss is about, and Mr. Simmons actually _screams_ at him to call 911.

All I can say is, "Those eyes…Those eyes…"

Those eyes are lifeless. They are still open wide, but there's not a hint of soul behind them.

The paramedics arrive a few minutes later. They pick up where Mr. Simmons left off, trying to save his life.

It's all in vain.

He's gone.

~Present Time…~

According to the paramedic, Arnold was dead the second that he snapped his head back. He was beyond help even before he hit the floor.

The worst part is, there was nothing that could've been done to save his life. That blood vessel had been, in a way, a time bomb. If it hadn't exploded at school, it would've gone off some other time…

…and it took the life of a good friend with it.

His death actually made the newspapers, surprisingly enough. One of the newspaper reporters had been following his story for quite some time. She had done all the reports on his parents and a few reports on him when he _really_ stood out from the crowd in the biggest possible ways: like bringing down Scheck.

"Child Humanitarian Dies at Age 9"

That was the headline. He actually made the front page.

In the article, she wrote about his history and what he'd done for people in this city.

She interviewed all of us along with Dino Spumoni, Mr. Green…

…even Scheck.

This is what he told her from his prison cell:

"I just wish I'd been there to see it. I wish I could go to his funeral. I want to spit on his grave!"

Aside from that quote, the article she wrote on him was far more beautiful than any obituary or eulogy could ever be. His grandparents thanked her profusely for it. I still have a copy of it to help remember him.

The term "Child Humanitarian" has pretty much become Arnold's second name, though he'll never know it. People who didn't know him when he was alive have come to respect him now that he's dead.

There was a moment of silence at school a few days after Arnold's death, and I know I heard far more than just Helga and me crying.

Starting with the animals at the boardinghouse, mournful howls and yowls filled the air when the news arrived to them. Apparently, it was their only way of saying "goodbye" to someone who had cared so much.

So here I am now: at his funeral. I'm staring down at his newly dug grave at the end of his funeral.

Some people think that by looking at the grave, it'll make it easier for them to say "goodbye".

I think it makes it harder.

I remember how he looked in his casket. He looked so peaceful and relaxed. His eyes were closed, like he was sleeping. His hands were folded neatly over his chest…

I half-expected him to wake up, sit up, look at me, and ask, "Why are you crying?"

But he didn't. He couldn't. His spirit's gone. His _life_ is gone.

In his place is a fresh grave with a marble gravestone (paid for by Dino Spumoni) marked with these words:

__

Arnold James Mackintosh Qwilleran

February 29, 1988 ~ April 30, 1997

Beloved grandson and devoted friend

He was clever, wise, and loyal until the end.

His memory shall be cherished forever.

Rest in Peace

Momentarily I wonder what happened to his soul. I don't think he really had a religion, so did that mean he went to Hell like most people think will happen if you aren't "saved"? Or did he do so much good in life that he was spared?

I hope it's the latter. It doesn't seem fair that he wouldn't be rewarded for all his good deeds just because he wasn't part of a certain religion.

It's a good thing that I'm at the end of the line because I can't say "goodbye". That's an ending, and I don't want to see my life without him beginning.

Are you satisfied, Fate or whoever?!

Has taking his life away made you pleased?!

"Arnold," I whisper hoarsely, "I-I can't say 'goodbye'. I just…can't say it. I mean, yes, you're gone, but I just can't tell you 'goodbye'. I don't _want_ you to be gone forever."

I turn and walk away, not wanting to stay a moment longer. I have tears in my eyes. I walk alone, avoiding other people.

Some mysterious hand ultimately draws me to the Sunset Arms boardinghouse. It stands alone and silent, as if in mourning as well.

I stop and stand there, gazing at the new bronze plaque on the building.

Mayor Dixie (with some pushing from Mister…no, _Councilman_ Green) had made the boardinghouse a landmark. She had a vote about it and, surprisingly, more than enough people voted that it become a permanent part of the city in his memory. After all, he had done the city countless services, not the least of which was by saving a large group of people from losing their homes and stores to Scheck's wrecking ball.

The plaque has these words:

__

This building is a city landmark, never to be torn down.

For within these walls lived a soul who continuously went

above and beyond the call of duty, who saved a neighborhood,

who saved lives. May his name never be forgotten:

Arnold James Mackintosh Qwilleran

February 29, 1988 ~ April 30, 1997

As I stand here, I slowly realize that he may _not_ be gone forever. He'll be there waiting for us on the Other Side. I gaze up at the window to his attic room that I know will never be rented out to a high-paying boarder.

"I couldn't going to say 'goodbye' to you before, and I'm not going to say it now. I'm just going to tell you that…I'll see you soon, okay?"

I wince. That came out wrong. It sounds like I'm going to kill myself or something.

A small breeze whistles past my ears, and I know I hear a voice on it.

__

His voice.

"Not _too_ soon. Okay, Phoebe?"

I look around and there, in the shadows, is a form I know well. It's like part of the shadows has morphed into him, and I know who's behind it.

"Not too soon, Arnold. Not too soon."

Before my eyes, the shadowy figure nods and morphs back into the darkness.


	2. Helga

He's Gone  
By Cybra

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A/N: Due to popular demand, I have decided to _continue_ "He's Gone". :::listens as crickets chirp::: Thanks a bunch.

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Special Notes: One reviewer last time told me that Hey Arnold! was created back in 1996. I do _not_ deny this. However, I have a firm belief that the school year _started_ in 1996. Therefore, the date on which Arnold died would be the _latter_ half of the school year which would make it 1997. Sorry if that was misunderstood. Also, when Helga says "you" when addressing God, I have it _purposely_ capitalized. After all, when _something_ refers to God, it's always capitalized as far as I understand.

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Disclaimer: Hey Arnold! is Craig's. I mean, if Craig wrote this story, Hey Arnold! would be over, right?

Helga

****

I hate You, God!

Why?! **_Why_** did You take him away?!

He did _nothing_ wrong!

He was so _kind,_ so _giving!_

Isn't he the kind of person that what you _want_ in this world?!

Why didn't you take somebody else?! Somebody who _deserved_ to die?!

**__**

Arnold didn't deserve it!

Why did You take away my guiding light?!

Arnold was my friend, the fixation of my passion, my muse, and possibly my **_future husband!_**

And _You,_ God, took him away.

How could You?

I'll never forget the way he smiled, radiant like sunshine. His walk was smooth, unhurried, like a lazy stream. His hair was a color blonde that I constantly thought of as fine-spun gold thread. His eyes were bottomless emerald pools I could lose myself in. His gentle voice could charm any bird from the trees. (I sometimes thought that the birds sang only for _him.)_

You put so much work into him…

****

…so why did You kill him?!

What sin did he commit that made it seem like he had to die?!

Oh, sure, he wasn't _always_ a perfect angel…

…but he came close enough!

Was it a whim? Just to see what his friends would do after he died?

Or was it an accident? A small oversight that You didn't notice until it was too late?

****

What was the reason?!

Well, it was quite a funeral, I'll tell You. I've never seen _all_ of Arnold's family, his mother's side _and_ his father's side, but thanks to You, I got to meet them as we all mourned his death.

His Great Grandpa Mackintosh (though he likes being called "Grandpa Mac"; he's from Arnold's mother's side) even flew in from Scotland in order to play the bagpipes. There wasn't a dry eye after he finished playing "Loch Lomond" and most _definitely_ not after playing "Amazing Grace".

And to see that big ninety-nine year-old man who could easily snap anyone in two cry made me cry even harder.

Thanks to _You,_ I now know that, yes, Arnold _was_ part Scottish.

I pick the lock on the window of his room leading to the fire escape. I don't care if I'm caught. I just want to sit inside his room for a minute, look around at all his things.

I slip inside and close the window after me.

It's all so familiar…

It's almost as if he's only off on a vacation or something. Nothing has been moved since the day he died. Someone must be dusting up here since not one speck of dust has landed on anything.

I sit down in the middle of the floor and just _bawl._

"Oh Traitorous Fate, _why_ did you take him from me?! Why take away my reason for waking up in the morning?! Why punish _him_ for a sin that I myself must've committed?! He cared so deeply for all! He deserved to live beyond one hundred!"

I pause as I nearly choke on a sob. I'm surprised nobody's come up to investigate yet.

"And yet, _he_ was the one to die: Arnold. The one who had hardly a harsh word for _anyone,_ even someone who taunted him and teased him like me."

I bury my face in my hands before I reach into my dress and pull out my locket. There my beloved's picture smiles back at me, but it's not the same. The likeness is only a facsimile. _Nothing_ can truly capture what he was.

I hate You, God!

I hate You for cutting his life short!

And therefore I hate You for taking away my hopes and dreams!

"Alas, my love! This life is too painful to continue! Perhaps if I – !"

"Please don't."

That quietly pleading voice is _his._ I'd know _his_ voice anywhere. _His_ voice I could pick out in a crowd of millions. No one else has a voice like –

"Arnold!"

And there he is sitting there on his bed, wringing his hands like he's always done when he's _extremely_ worried! His eyes are half-closed as he leans towards me, his amazing green eyes shining with worry…

…for me.

I quickly take in a breath. He's here! He's _here!_ He's…

**__**

…different!

I now notice that he's not the same as I've always known him. His _mannerisms_ are the same, but his _body_ is wrong. His features are far softer than they normally were, as soft as the moonlight…

Wait a minute.

I look up and see the moon shining above us. I look down at the ground and see only one shadow: my own.

God, what kinda trick _is_ this?!

"Please don't…" he pleads again. "Don't tell me I killed somebody _else_ when I died. I wouldn't be able to stand myself."

He's a figment of my imagination. He has to be. There's no other reason for this.

"You're not really here," I whisper hoarsely around the lump in my throat. I let my tears continue to flow freely as I tell him, "You're just an illusion."

"No. I'm not. I'm here. I'm just…not what I used to be."

"Then…you're an angel?"

I always knew he was an angel, but now he really _is_ one straight from Heaven to –

"No. I'm not."

I gulp. If he's not an angel, does that mean he went…?!

****

God, that wasn't fair!

"I'm not from…you know…either."

I sigh with relief.

Okay, You're a _little_ off the hook now…

…but I still hate You for killing him.

"Then…what are you?"

I know I'm still crying, but I don't want to wipe away the tears. I'm kinda proud of them. I'm _finally_ showing him the sweet, sensitive girl I hid from him while he was alive…

I choke on a new sob, but I don't let it get away. I _need_ to hear what he is.

"Well…I'm a ghost. I haven't crossed over yet."

I stare. "Why?"

He gives me that kind, wise smile he always gave us when we were scared. I half-expect him to tell me "Do not be afraid" like in all those Bible stories.

"I can't. I have unfinished business."

"What _kind_ of unfinished business?"

He rises from his seat and walks silently over to me; his steps don't make a sound. He kneels beside me and looks me in the eyes.

He's softly glowing, just like the moonlight. He puts just a _little_ more light on me when he walks over to me.

I reach out to touch him. I feel warmth – the warmth I've _always_ felt around him – but there's nothing else, no substance beneath my touch.

There is only moonlight.

"I can't leave. Not yet. I need to know…"

He falters, as if he's not sure what to tell me. I wait for him to continue, gazing longingly at him. He _must_ know this is painful for me but still felt that he needed to show himself to me.

Ah, my beloved! As always, you pull me from my own clutches when I'm ready to harm myself!

"I need to know if you all can manage without me. I need to see if you all can move on and succeed. That need…holds me here."

"Here?"

I look around the room in shocked amazement. He'll be stuck in this room for the rest of eternity?!

"In the boardinghouse. I can also go to PS 118. I guess it's because I died there." He gives a little shrug. "However, I just picture myself there, and I'm there. I _can_ leave the buildings, but I can't walk to everyone's houses on my way from one place to the other. I'm limited to the property lines of the school and the boardinghouse."

He's stuck. He wants to help us, but he can't. He's trapped in his own home _and_ in the school.

What an afterlife!

****

I hate You for doing this to him!

"And you can never leave the school or here?"

"Not until I know you guys are getting along fine without me."

In a way, it's nice to know he'll always be here…

…but the price is far too great.

Something occurs to me, and I actually smile.

"I can come back at night," I offer. "I can tell you what's going on with the gang outside of school."

His eyes lose a bit of their sadness. "You don't have to…"

"Arnold, I _want_ to."

He smiles at me, that radiant smile making the moonlight he seems to be made of glow a little more brightly. "I can never thank you enough…"

I smile back at him, then I frown sadly. I look down at the Arnold locket in my hand. I finger it.

He follows my gaze. "I figured you'd gotten it back. Still don't know how you got it, though."

My head snaps up at him. "You _knew?!"_

"I was able to read the inscription before the lights went out." A small smile lights on his ethereal lips. "Besides, a little bird told me."

"A little bird?"

I'm confused. What "little bird"? Unless…

I inwardly growl. Phoebe. It _has_ to be. When I get my hands on her – !

Suddenly, he speaks again, putting a hand to his chin. "Now how did that bird put it again? Oh, yeah." He clears his throat and closes his eyes.

He recites this:

__

Arnold, my love, my sultry preteen,

Why must I hold you only whilst I dream?

Will I be forever enslaved by your spell?

Why must I worship you and never ever tell?

Oh, God! _Please_ don't tell me…!

__

Arnold, you make my girlhood tremble,

My senses all go wacky.

Someday I'll tell the world, my love,

Or my name's not…

He pauses and looks me in the eye. "…Helga G. Pataki."

All the lies, all the secrets, all the lost chances…

****

…and he already knew!

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?!" I demand.

He gives me a serious look. "Helga, what _could_ I say to you when you walked up to the door on that day looking for your 'pair of roller skates'?" He makes quotation marks with his fingers around the last part as he rolls his eyes. "I couldn't just say, 'Hey, Helga! Here's your parrot! By the way, he blabbed your little secret that you're actually in love with me. That's not a problem, is it?' I didn't think you'd be able to stand it. So I pretended I didn't have a clue."

"I could've lied and said that somebody must've taught it that poem in order to freak you out…" I say, staring straight into those unearthly eyes of his.

"I know, but I wouldn't have believed you. Before you rang the doorbell, I pulled out that pink book and compared your handwriting from my yearbook with the handwriting in the pink book. Perfect match." He looks at me seriously yet kindly. "That's why you tore out the last page, isn't it? You signed your name, didn't you?"

I nod slowly. "So you knew all this time, but you didn't tell me…"

"I wanted you to say it yourself. I had a feeling you weren't ready, so I didn't want to push you."

Oh, Arnold! So caring! So kind!

I smile softly at him. "Thanks, Arnold…"

He simply nods. "I need to go, Helga. Being visible isn't as easy as it looks. I'm still getting the hang of it."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Same time, same place?"

He nods, then chuckles. "And you might see me around school. Check the shadows every so often. Phoebe did after the funeral when I spoke to her and saw me."

"It figures." I smile again.

I stand to go, and he stands as well. However, he's not going anywhere.

"Hey, Arnold?" I ask suddenly.

"What?"

"What do you think of me…? I mean, do you…?"

I don't finish. He knows the rest of my question.

He gives me a sad look. "Maybe I could've. Maybe some part of me does. But I do love you as a close friend, Helga, believe it or not. However, I don't really think we _could_ have any sort of romantic relationship. It really wouldn't work."

I give him a sad look back. I want to hold him in my arms and kiss him goodbye, but I can't.

He's right.

A romantic relationship between us is impossible now…

…_especially_ since one day he'll cross over.

And I know that long distance relationships never work.

Still…thank You, God. Thank You for letting me still have _some_ time with him…

…And I'm sorry for being so angry earlier.

"Au revoir, Arnold," I whisper in a French accent that I know doesn't sound very realistic as I exit his window. However, I know that he probably won't catch the reference.

As I lock the window behind me, I glance back to see him fade back into the moonlight he'd created his "body" from.

His voice whispers in my ear, "Au revoir…Cecile."

****

Musical Inspiration:

"Love Theme from _Attack of the Clones_" by John Williams from the Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones soundtrack


	3. Gerald

He's Gone

By Cybra

**A/N:  Wow!  You guys like this _that much?!  Dude!  I thought I'd be seriously bummin' you guys out!_**

**Disclaimer:  Let's use logical reasoning here.  Hey Arnold! is owned by Craig Barlett.  I am _not Craig Barlett.  Therefore, Hey Arnold! is not mine._**

Gerald 

_Amazing grace,_

_How sweet the sound_

_That saved a wretch_

Like me… 

It's an old hymn.  I guess just about everybody knows it.

Still, that old hymn holds new meaning for me now.

A _huge old guy played it on the bagpipes at my best friend's funeral._

Yeah.  My best friend is dead.

Maybe you've heard of him:

Arnold James Mackintosh Qwilleran.

He never really mentioned his full name.  I didn't _know his full name until I saw the obituary and that one article about him in the paper.  Sure, I knew his initials, but I didn't know what they stood for._

I guess it was kinda fitting the way he died…

I mean, Arnold was always kinda quiet but would stand firmly and protest injustices that were happening around him.  My mom called him a pillar of strength for other people, an anchor that kept us from drifting too far away from our goals.

Then, without warning, in silence, he was gone.

But when my best friend died, I lost a brother.

I hate to say this, but when a white person tells you "I try not to hold prejudices based upon skin color…", you know you're in trouble.  I always get the feeling that that person doesn't completely mean what he says.

I swear Arnold must've been colorblind.  He never said a word to me about the way I looked even from day one of our friendship.  He just _didn't care._

That's one thing I admired about him, but that's not why he became my brother in everything except blood.

He _acted just like a brother._

He listened to me when I had problems, he hung out with me for hours on end (even when we were _both bored out of our skulls), he backed me up when I thought nobody else would…_

We even had our own "secret" handshake.

I've noticed that when most friends had a "secret" handshake, they usually shared it with other friends.

I remember turning a corner once to see Sid holding out his thumb to do our little thumb-wiggle with Arnold.

I almost laughed my head off when Arnold gave Sid this "You've gotta be kidding" look.

I asked him about it later, and he told me, "That handshake is between you and me, Gerald.  Nobody else as far as I'm concerned."

I was confused then, but I know now what he meant:

That handshake – to him – was special, a way of showing our bond as best friends.  To use it with somebody else would've been a sacrilegious.

When something was special to Arnold, he made sure it _stayed special._

And that's why I won't use that handshake now.

The first few days after he died, I really couldn't believe it.  I mean, Arnold?  Not there?  Ever?  It didn't compute.  To me, Arnold would always be there at the boardinghouse, waiting for one of us to come over and say "hi".

Then, the shock was gone, and I knew he wasn't going to be there anymore.

It literally tore me apart.

The guy was my best friend!  He wasn't just an acquaintance that when he died, I felt kinda bad!  I told him everything!  He knew me as well as I knew myself!

When he died, it was like somebody had chopped off my hand, and I was still reaching for things with the stump.

It hurt _that bad._

I almost didn't go to the funeral.  I didn't think I could take it.  I didn't want to show the other kids that "Gerald, the cool guy" wasn't always cool and calm and laid back.  I didn't want to cry in front of them.

My mom told me that it was okay to cry.  Everybody else would be, too.

And in true mom fashion, she was right.

I cried my eyes out, and nobody (least of all me) cared.

So I sit here now: on the front steps leading up into PS 118.  Everybody else has left to go home, but I don't feel like going home.  Even though he's been gone for almost two weeks, I still miss him as if he'd died yesterday.

"I kinda expected you to be the first one out of here."

I jump.  I didn't know somebody _else was here!_

Then the voice matches up with a certain person in my memory.

No…it can't be…

I turn around to see a shadowy figure staying close to the shadows of the doorway.  He's standing there, and – though I can't make out any details – I know he has his arms crossed loosely and a smile is on his face.

"Arnold?" I ask, knowing that voice and that silhouette anywhere.

The figure – Arnold – nods.  "Hey, Gerald."

"I – I don't believe it…"

"Believe it.  It's me all right."

"How?"

"Ask Helga or Phoebe about it.  Helga got the full explanation first, then told Phoebe.  Sorry I can't give you the whole thing, Gerald, but I don't have a lot of time."

"Why's that?" I ask.

"My grandma…"

The ghostly figure of my best friend chokes.  My eyes widen in realization.

"Is she alright?!"

"No.  She got sick at my funeral, and she keeps getting sicker.  I need to be there…"

"It's a long walk from here," I tell him.

"It'll only take me a few seconds."  He gives me a friendly yet serious look.  "Gerald, I'm _really sorry about two weeks ago…"_

Same old Arnold.  Blaming himself for something terrible that he couldn't control.  He would've probably blamed himself for there being no air in space because he didn't work hard enough at it if we'd let him.

Nah.  That's an exaggeration.  He'd never do that.

I hope.

"It's not like you _planned it, Buddy," I tell him, not really surprised now that I'm talking to a ghost.  He's still Arnold…even if he __is a ghost. "Though I have to say that somebody's got rotten timing."_

"Figures, doesn't it?"  He gives a weak grin.  I can't see it, but I know it's there.  I've known him that long to know it's there just by his tone of voice.  "We've done so much dangerous stuff that could've gotten us killed in the end, and the one time I'm not ready to go, it's all over."

"I reiterate.  Somebody's got _really rotten timing."_

"Can't argue with you on that one."

A comfortable silence follows.  It's just the two of us again, and I like it.

"I'm surprised you didn't show yourself earlier."

"You weren't looking in the right places," he grumbles good-naturedly. "I was about ready to send up Mr. Simmons' rockets and see if _that'd get your attention."_

"What _were the right places?"_

"The shadows.  I haven't mastered the art of showing myself completely any time day or night in any light yet, so I just use shadows and/or moonlight to make myself known."

"Hangin' back in the shadows.  It's _so like you," I comment, grinning as I __know he's sticking his tongue out at me._

"I just wanted to tell you, Gerald, that I'm gonna be hanging around for a while.  If you need to talk or anything…"

"Just look in the shadows?"

"Right.  However, you'll have to be around the boardinghouse or the school to do that.  I can't appear anywhere else…I can't _go anywhere else."_

"I'll ask Phoebe about it later," I tell him, sort of picking up on his anxiety for his grandma. "You go help your grandma get better."

"If I can," he sorrowfully says. "There's nothing I can really do."

"Just do what you can.  That's all you ever do, and somehow things get better."

I can almost see his smile this time as he says, "Thanks, Gerald."

"Don't mention it.  Oh, uh, do you want me to spread the news about this to the others?"

"Yeah.  I want them to know I'm here, but it's not easy to catch everybody's attention.  Thanks."

"No problem."

I stand up and walk towards him.  I feel kinda stupid as I hold out my thumb.  Of course he can't do it…

A shadowy hand reaches out and touches my hand with its thumb sticking up.  I can feel some kinda warmth there, but nothing else.

I grin as we wiggle our thumbs back and forth.

That handshake is ours.  Nobody else's.

"I have to go, Gerald.  Grandma needs me."

"I understand, Buddy.  Take care."

"You, too.  If you want me, just watch for me.  You'll see me."

"You got it."

He melts back into the shadows right before my eyes.

He's gone but not really gone.  He's still hanging around here somewhere between PS 118 and the boardinghouse.

I turn and walk down the steps again, heading towards Phoebe's house.  I can't wait to get the whole story.

Referring back to that hymn I mentioned earlier, I think that that hymn sort of reminds me of him in a way.

He had the grace to reach out a hand or stick out his neck to help someone even if it seemed like a lost cause.

And he succeeded many times, saving people from unpleasant situations over and over again without a real word of thanks.

I once was lost 

_But now am found_

_Was blind_

But now I see 

Thanks, Arnold.


	4. Arnold

He's Gone

By Cybra

**A/N:  I know you guys weren't expecting this POV and may or may not be disappointed that there won't be much more to this left.  (Just one more part to go.)  Although Arnold has affected many people in his life, I don't have ideas for other people.  At a later date, I may or may not add more.  Who knows?**

**Disclaimer:  If Hey Arnold! were mine…you'd see some pretty weird stuff happening on the show.  Therefore, Arnold and his buddies aren't mine.**

Arnold 

They're all gone.

Phoebe, Gerald, Helga, Stinky, Sid, Harold, Curly, Eugene, Rhonda, Nadine…

They're all gone.

Even my grandparents and the boarders are gone.

Grandma died a year after getting sick at my funeral.

Grandpa died soon afterward.  (Despite what the doctors said, I know it was from a broken heart.)

The boarders moved out since the boardinghouse was being set up as a kind of museum.

I should feel honored, I guess.  I mean, the museum's about me and all that I did…

…but I don't care anymore.

I just don't care.

My friends have moved on with their lives.  They're no longer a part of PS 118.

Helga no longer visits me to keep me up to date.

I guess she got sick and tired of talking to a ghost…

…or maybe what happened to the others happened to her:

She forgot.

I noticed things were changing after they all moved on to fifth grade.  Nobody was glancing at the shadows anymore.  (I could make myself fully visible then with no problems at all, but I didn't want to scare anybody not in on the fact that my spirit roamed the halls.)  No one just lingered about so that I could talk to them anymore.

It's like summer vacation made them forget.

I was there at their graduation from elementary school.  (Man, was I excited for them!)

I stepped right out in front of them…

…and they passed me right by, not noticing me.

That's when I realized that not _only had they forgotten but that they were unknowingly blocking me out._

As far as they were concerned, my ghost hadn't existed at all.

I was just a figment of their imaginations.

My heart just broke in two when I figured this out.

I had then retreated back to the boardinghouse/museum.  The workers there knew about me.  After all, I was the resident specter who sometimes would play with their kids if I was bored and they couldn't find a babysitter.

I had been so upset by the rejection that I rearranged things just to take out my frustration…

…Of course, I added to other people's frustration when I did that.

Still, I didn't really care because I knew the truth when my friends walked past me:

I was truly alone.

I aimlessly wandered around the Sunset Arms and PS 118.  Most of the time, I was invisible.

Sometimes, I just let myself be visible to anybody, not caring who saw me.

That's how I found out that I was becoming even _more famous.  Just the other day, I listened in as a kid (Gerald's replacement, I assume) told a story about the spirit who haunted PS 118._

The little girl had said, "Within the walls of our very own PS 118 lurks a ghostly figure.  This strange spirit will simply appear for no rhyme or reason in the form of a boy with a football-shaped head.  He has been seen walking the halls by many a kid.  His unearthly footsteps have been heard echoing through the school.  Some say that they've even heard the sound of someone crying even though nobody was around."

I had almost started laughing then, but I didn't find any reason to.  It sounded just like one of Gerald's own tales…

I had swallowed, trying not to sob and be noticed.

"Nobody knows who this ghost boy is," the girl had continued. "Some say that he was killed in a freak accident.  Some say that he's a demon, searching for an unsuspecting victim.  Some say he's just some kid that the teachers are hiring to spook the younger kids.  Whoever he is, he still roams the halls to this day.  Who knows who will be the next to sight The PS 118 Ghost.  The end."

The other kids who had gathered around clapped.

Seeing no harm in it (and deciding to do Principal Wartz a favor by getting rid of these lingerers for him), I then appeared before them, clapping my own hands and smiling mirthlessly.

They all stopped clapping and stared at me before shrieking in fright and running off.

The job done, I disappeared from human vision, still smiling mirthlessly.

Nobody had even thought that the ghost of the boardinghouse and the ghost of PS 118 were one and the same.

Helga knew…Phoebe knew…Gerald knew…And I don't know who _else knew…_

…but I guess they don't know anymore.

I often times wonder what happened to all my friends.  After they left PS 118, I never saw them again.

Not good considering that my concern for them keeps me chained to this world.

I want to cross over, but I can't.  I still have unfinished business.

I have to know…

Did they succeed?  How are their lives now?  Had they learned _anything from me to help themselves?_

Most people would think this obsessive.  They probably are the ones who would suggest "You're dead.  They're not.  Get over it and go on with your afterlife."

I can't do that.

I care about them too much.

I care about my grandparents and the boarders, too, of course, but I _have to know if my friends are making it okay._

To be honest, when my friends did the right thing, I was overjoyed each time.  It made me feel good, especially if all I had to do was just give them a gentle nudge in the right direction.

Their successes, to a small degree, were my successes.

Thirty years have passed since I last saw them, and I still don't know what happened.

I've lost hope.  Since I can never discover how well they're doing, I'm forever bound to PS 118 and the boardinghouse.

Long after their lives are over, I will still be held here, my business still unfinished.

I am trapped for all eternity in a never-ending Hell.

I walk down the hall close to Mr. Simmons' old classroom.  (He's been retired for about three years.)  I sigh to myself as I think of all the good times I had in that classroom.

Then I sigh sadly as I remember my last moments in that room.

~Thirty Years Ago…~

"Arnold, could you please go up to the board and work out this problem?" Mr. Simmons asks.

"Sure."

I rise from my seat and walk over to the chalkboard.  I reach for a piece of chalk, grab it, and raise it to the write on the board.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  It's just a simple long –

My thoughts end in mid-sentence as a sudden explosion erupts in my mind.

Surprised, I jerk my head back, my eyes wide and my mouth open.

In that second, I feel dizzy and lightheaded.

When my mind stops spinning, I see myself lying down on the floor.

It takes a moment for me to register all this and another moment for me to recognize what is going on from all that weird stuff I read in magazines.

An OBE, an out of body experience.

I then realize the truth:

I'm dead.

With a strange detachment, I watch as Mr. Simmons perform CPR on _my body.  It's unreal._

I then turn and face a strange tunnel with a light on the end of it.

I walk forward, drawn to the light…

…then stop…

…and turn around.

Hands from the tunnel wall reach out to grab me as I start to run back the way I came.

I'm not _ready!_

I'm not _ready to be dead yet!_

I still have too much to do!

My friends need me!

So, I turn my back on whatever Paradise that is waiting for me and go back to the school.

~Present Time…~

I didn't know it at the time, but I had doomed myself to an eternity of loneliness.

If I was still alive, I could kill myself right now.

As I glance uncaring at the bulletin board in Mr. Simmons' old room (being a ghost has its perks; no keys needed to get into locked rooms is one of them), I notice something out of the corner of my eye.

The graduating class I could've been a part of was coming back for a thirty-year reunion and holding it in the school gym next Friday!

_Now I may have a chance to leave this place!_

My excitement quickly fades, just like it always does.

It doesn't mean they'll tell _me how they're __really doing.  They'll be trying to top one another's stories, some parts of these stories being real while others are false._

I still won't know…

…and besides, they wouldn't even know I was there.

Dejected once more, I walk through the door and into the hallway once more.

Part of me can't wait for the dance.

The rest of me can't help crying over it.


	5. Mr. Simmons

He's Gone

By Cybra

**A/N:  Thanks to Cheryl's e-mail, I have been inspired to write this chapter.  Many thanks go to her!  And there _is one more chapter after this before I end it.  However, I may come back later and include more chapters.  We shall see.  ^^_**

**Disclaimer:  clears throat  Hey Arnold! is owned by the Almighty and Powerful Craig Barlett, not by this lowly writer.  Besides, would the owner of Hey Arnold! kill off the _main character?!  I don't __think so!_**

Mr. Simmons 

It's strange coming back here.

I taught at PS118 for twenty-seven years.  I finally retired three years ago.  It was someone else's turn, and I wasn't getting any younger.

Besides, this place holds too many memories.  Many are good, but just as many are bad.

One bad memory in particular is the memory of that day thirty years ago when I lost a student in this very room.

Unconsciously, I walk over to the spot where I stood thirty years ago on that horrible day.

I glance at the second desk in the front row.  That had been _his seat.  Even after he was gone, no one else sat in that seat.  That was __his seat, no one else's._

Who was he?

He was a hero, a legend, a ray of hope for the future.

Perhaps you've visited that museum on Vine Street about him.

Yes, I was the teacher of Arnold Qwilleran.

All of my students are special (and I told them that so much that I'm certain most of the time they were sick of hearing it), but Arnold was…something else.  He was special, yes, but he was something beyond special.  "Unique" is a little closer to what he was but still not quite right.

Why do I say this?

Because he touched so many lives.  Well over fifty directly.  Countless more if you count the ripple effect historians love to talk about.  What helped spread this ripple effect was the only biography written by Arnold's favorite writer, Agatha Caulfield: The Boy Who Believed in Magic.  It contains interviews from me along with many others.  (I have an autographed copy sitting on my shelf at home.  I've read it several times.  It's very good, and I would recommend you read it.)

What few people know (except for those who read the book) is that although when I felt as though I should give up on one thing or another, he somehow knew (almost as if by instinct) to come and talk to me about it.  That kept me going.

But thirty years ago, I almost quit my job because I couldn't keep _him going._

I pick up a piece of chalk and write the problem on the board.  Even after all these years, I still remember that problem: three-hundred-and-forty-seven-point-nine-six divided by two-point-five.

I still remember everything that happened that day…

~Thirty Years Ago…~

"All right, class!  Listening ears!" I cheerfully tell them. "We're going to quickly review long division with decimals!"

My class groans as one.  I know they aren't looking forward to it, but I also know that they _will do what I ask in the end._

"Oh, come on!  It'll be fun!" I tell them. "Now let's see…"

I pause, looking around at all of my students.

Phoebe?  No.  She already knows the material well enough.  She doesn't need all the space I give on tests for scratch work.  I'd have to ask her to do it all over again step by step to show the others, and I _don't want anyone feeling stupid because she can do this in her head._

Sid?  No.  He's not very comfortable doing math problems on the board.  I'm going to have to cure him of that in our after-school help sessions.  Not now, though.  That's not fair.

Hmm…Arnold?  Perfect!  He knows the material _and still works step by step!  __Plus, he's actually paying attention!_

"Arnold, could you please go up to the board and work out this problem?"

"Sure," he says with a smile, rising from his seat and walking forward.

I watch him with a smile as he picks up a piece of chalk and raises it to write on the board.

The chalk doesn't even touch the board as he snaps his head back, eyes wide with shock.

"Arnold?" I ask, a bit worried.

He falls to the floor.  My students start screaming as I dart forward.

My fingers fly to his neck to feel for a pulse.  Nothing.  Almost by instinct, I begin CPR, fighting to restart his heart.

The screams of my students almost seem to fade into the background until the door slams open.

"What is going on?!" Principal Wartz demands.

I turn my head to him as I continue pumping Arnold's chest.  **"Call 911 right now!!!"**

I had no idea I could be so forceful!

Principal Wartz stares for only a second, then races out of the room.

In the distance, Phoebe's voice cuts through everyone's screaming.  "His eyes…His eyes…"

I turn my head to look at Arnold again, then breathe into his lungs once more.  As I pump his chest again, I can't help staring into his eyes.

Those green eyes – once filled with life, determination, sympathy, and hope – are empty.

But I don't stop fighting and hoping and praying.

It's all worth nothing in the end.

~Present Day…~

I'm snapped out of my thoughts as I hear someone sobbing.  I freeze for a moment before I begin to follow the sound.

I can't help wondering why a student would stay this late as I continue following the tormented sound.  The only reason _I'm here is because I asked for special permission from Principal Wartz, and I doubt he'd give permission to a __student._

The sound seems to be coming from the gym.  I open the door and look around.

There, at the top of the bleachers, head bowed over his knees, sits a young boy, sobbing.

My heart goes out to him.  I slowly climb the bleachers.

"Hello," I call gently.

The sobbing abruptly stops as he snaps his head up.

I freeze, staring.

He's wearing a pair of black sneakers along with a pair of blue jeans, an un-tucked plaid shirt, and a blue-green sweater.  Two cowlicks of blonde hair stick up on either side of a little blue hat atop a football-shaped head.  Two red-rimmed, hopeless green eyes stare at me.

"Arnold?"

The name rolls off my tongue without me thinking about it.

I shake my head.

"No.  You can't be – "

I don't get to finish as he leans his head back and releases a tormented howl before he places his head back on his knees, sobbing once more.

Immediately, I climb as fast as I can to the top of the bleachers.

He's _fading!  How can that __be?!_

I don't pause for a moment as I suddenly have a thought.

There really _is a ghost here at PS118!_

And maybe…just _maybe…that ghost…_

…is Arnold.

**"Wait!!!" I cry out.**

It's too late.

He's gone.

My hand touches the bench to feel a quickly vanishing warm spot.  The bench in front of it has a cold spot where ghostly tears had landed just a few seconds before.

"Arnold?" I call. "Arnold?!"

My only answer is that tortured sobbing.


	6. Reunion

He's Gone  
By Cybra

****

A/N: We've come to the finale, folks! This is Arnold's closure for this whole little series that was _originally_ supposed to be a one-shot. Read on!

****

Disclaimer: If Craig Barlett had killed off his main character, there'd be no series. So, logically, Hey Arnold! can't possibly be mine. The poem is written by _me!_ It's _mine!_ So, nyah! P

Reunion

Silence slowly fell over the gathering as people wandered over to the Wall of Photographs that had been set up in order to remind the guests of the good times. Images from long ago of class picnics, field trips, class photos, and general goofing around brought smiles to the guests' faces as they reminisced about the good old days at PS 118.

The reminiscing stopped when each person reached one photo that had Gerald and one other person that the gathered crowd had worked very hard to push away from their minds, that person's face drawing up a painful memory that still hurt after thirty long years.

Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd-Higgins had set up the entire reunion and had thought up the idea for the Wall of Photographs. She had made nametags for each of the participants containing class pictures taken from fourth grade so that people who hadn't seen each other in years would know who they were talking to. She had even managed to get their favorite teacher Mr. Simmons to come by.

She had been careful, choosing each picture for the Wall to show at least one of the guests. Some classmates had even come in when she'd gotten in touch with them to take pictures of themselves in the same positions as the original photographs – sort of before-and-after shots that the guests had appreciated.

Apparently, she had made a mistake in choosing one of the pictures.

Arnold James Mackintosh Qwilleran's face smiled widely at them with his arm wrapped around Gerald's shoulders and Gerald's arm wrapped around his shoulders, frozen in time.

Arnold had died during class of an aneurysm. A weak blood vessel in his brain had exploded, killing him even before he hit the floor. That horrible image had stayed with his classmates for weeks. A soul once so vibrant had been lost in a split second.

Yet, they remembered fantasies of seeing Arnold in the shadows or even talking to him in a ghostly form. They remembered pretending that they had stayed after school together and chatted with an imaginary phantasm. Of course when summer vacation had come, they had been unable to stay at PS 118 for any real length of time and so the fantasies stopped. And as the summer wore on, they pushed these imaginative meetings from their minds and eventually forgot.

So why did those fantasies suddenly come back with such great strength?

A voice mellowed with age suddenly pierced the all-consuming silence. "I saw him last night."

Heads snapped around to the retired teacher who stared at nothing but the photograph.

Phoebe Hyerdahl – formerly Mrs. Gerald Johannsen before a relatively easy divorce – asked, "You saw him?"

Mr. Simmons nodded. "I was visiting last night just to look at the place when I heard someone crying. I looked around the school and saw a blonde boy sitting up there." He nodded towards the place on the bleachers where the ghostly figure had sat. "He was sobbing as if the world had ended."

Helga gaped and then swallowed. She was over her love of Arnold (his words in that strange dream that had been set in Arnold's deserted attic room somehow had brought her some peace), but it still hadn't been easy to get over the knowledge of that he was dead.

"It was him," Mr. Simmons stated, finally meeting everyone's gaze. "I know it was him."

In the brief silence that followed, a strangled sob reached their ears. Everyone froze, listening intently. The sound of running footsteps reached their ears.

"It came from the hall!" shouted Thaddeus P. Gamelthorpe (known to friends and former classmates as "Curly") as he ran towards the gym door.

The group of adults rushed after him, following the sound of the running footsteps. The footsteps suddenly stopped, but they followed the sound of sudden tormenting sobbing that reached their ears that came from the same direction as the footsteps.

"It's coming from Mr. Simmons' old room!" Lorenzo shouted.

The group paused outside the classroom door, both anxious and terrified to go inside.

What could they possibly see in there?

Helga slowly opened the door, steeling herself for what she might find.

She was totally unprepared for the sight before her.

Sitting at _his_ old desk, body bent over the desk, head wresting on his arms, sobbing hopelessly, was the ghostly visage of Arnold.

Nobody spoke as the specter's crying continued, the ghost unaware of his visitors.

"Arnold?" someone – they thought it was Stinky but couldn't be sure – asked.

The head slowly rose up to reveal the familiar face, streaked with ghostly tears and emerald green eyes a dull jade with sorrow. His ghostly body – though it was that of a nine year-old boy – seemed older than time itself.

He looked as haunted as the buildings he inhabited. Not a glimmer of the hope or optimism that he was known and remembered for remained. In its place was the look of a tormented creature with no prayer of escaping the prison it had chosen for itself.

Slowly, he looked at each of his friends in turn, opened his lips, and spoke in a heartbroken voice, "Why didn't you come back?"

A million poems flew into Helga's head. She had become a successful poet over the years and had been coming up with new poems for her latest book, but none had the power or sheer emotion of the ones that sprang to her mind now.

"You said you'd come back," he whimpered, ghostly tears still falling. "But you didn't. You were at school, but you didn't…"

Apparently finishing his explanation of his strange words was too much for him. He slowly lowered his head to his arms again and his body quivered with heart-wrenching sobs.

Phoebe stepped forward next to her best friend. She knew (and she knew her classmates knew) what Arnold had meant. The memories of their "fantasies" revealed that they had promised Arnold that they would stay in touch with him…

But they had all broken their promise. They had blocked Arnold from their minds and had convinced themselves so well that the apparition had been a product of their imaginations that even when he had shown himself to them, they hadn't been able to see him.

The once-mousy woman stepped forward and kneeled beside the distraught spirit. She wrapped her arms around his "body".

Her memories told her to expect the warmth that she had grown to associate with this amazing boy. So when she touched his body, she felt some warmth but there was a large amount of cold in there as well. Time and despair had robbed him of most of the warmth.

"We're sorry," she whispered, tears threatening to spill from her own eyes. "It's not going to change what the past thirty years have done to you, but we're so sorry."

The spirit raised his head from his arms and leaned into her embrace, wrapping his smaller and thinner arms around her neck as he cried ghostly tears onto her shoulder. His small frame shuddered in her arms, and she forced herself not to shudder as well. The chill from his tears combined with the sudden increase in the chill of his "body" both chilled her and horrified her.

After a few moments, Gerald stepped forward as well and reached out to pat his old best friend on the back, a bit awkward in more ways than one. He wasn't sure how to comfort a ghost nor was he exactly sure how to comfort Arnold himself. Arnold had not once broken down like this in front of anyone, not even him.

"I'm sorry, man…" Gerald told his old best friend. "I thought I was goin' crazy, seeing you…I shouldn't have ignored you…"

Somewhere amidst the whimpering and crying of the spirit, a choked tenor voice told his former classmates, "I forgive you."

After several minutes of no one moving and Arnold simply crying on Phoebe's shoulder, the ghost pulled his face away but stayed encircled in her arms.

"What happened to all of you?" Arnold whispered, his voice hoarse from shed tears.

Everyone remembered how Arnold had told them that he had turned his back on Heaven in order to make sure that they would be all right. Maybe this would finally help him move on.

"I went to Yale," Phoebe began, "and I'm now a successful psychologist. I got married to Gerald after college but divorced him four years later."

Arnold's eyes flicked with concern from Phoebe to Gerald and back again.

Gerald chuckled. "We parted on good terms, Arnold. It wasn't working out. I'm now a pro-football player. I wanted to take her everywhere with me, but her practice wouldn't let her. We didn't see much of each other anyway, so we figured it'd simply be best if we just ended our marriage."

Helga stepped forward next. "I'm a poet now. I'm writing my tenth book of poetry, it's untitled but I think I'm going to call it 'Memories' or something like that. I'm even engaged. Scary, isn't it? Someone actually thinks they can put up with me." She held out her hand for him to see the diamond engagement ring.

"I'm glad," he told her honestly, a hint of his old smile on his face.

As each friend and former classmate stepped forward to tell his or her story, Phoebe felt that warmth she had always associated with Arnold slowly returning. It would take a long time for it all to return to him (after all, thirty years of sheer hopelessness doesn't do anyone a bit of good), but at least it was coming back. That was her sign that his own wounds that he had nursed thirty long years without a bit of comfort were starting to heal.

When the last person finished their story, tears were flowing out of Arnold's eyes again. Only this time, these tears were of joy. Joy for _them,_ those who had abandoned him and then returned to him at last.

A suddenly light caught their eyes. Near the window, a portal of light had appeared and two winged figures – angels – stepped out.

The first was an elderly male.

"Grandpa," Arnold whispered.

The second was an elderly woman who stayed close by Phil.

"Grandma."

"We're not the only ones, Short Man," Phil told his grandson. "There're two people here who've been waiting even longer than we have to see you again."

Two more angels appeared, one male with handsome features and blonde hair and the other with a wide-shaped head and brown hair.

"Mom!" Arnold cried out, emotion strangling his voice. "Dad!"

Phoebe released him as the boy raced towards his parents. So they _had_ been dead all these years after all.

His mother fell to one knee and wrapped her boy in her arms, her pearly wings tucked neatly behind her back. His father placed a hand on his head and ruffled his hair.

Then, Arnold's own wings appeared for he, too, was to be an angel. But his wings were different. They weren't full and healthy like those of his parents and grandparents. They were broken and patches of feathers were missing.

"Time to say 'goodbye', Arnold," Stella gently told her son.

He turned his face to his friends and whispered, "Goodbye, everyone. I'll see you again someday."

"Goodbye, Arnold," each adult whispered back.

Stella stood, cradling her son in her arms and gave the boy's former classmates and former teacher a smile. Then she turned towards the heavenly portal as the boy's grandparents stepped through.

Miles stayed for a moment longer. "Thank you."

Then he turned as well and entered the portal with his wife and child.

~@~

No one would ever forget that night. After all, it had turned out to be not the simple class reunion that they had expected, but a reunion with an old friend and a reunion of a family.

Helga put it best when she immortalized that night in her poetry, though future generations wouldn't be able to decipher its true meaning.

__

Broken-Winged Angel

Oh broken-winged angel, who cannot fly,  
Who can no longer hold your head up high,  
An offering has come from those who live:  
An apology for something they did.

Can you forgive them for their wrong?  
And if you do, shall you go to where you belong?  
Or will you forever be bound to the Earth,  
The place that had been your home since birth?  
Will you reach Heaven at long last

Or remain chained to your sorrowful past? 

Oh broken-winged angel, fallen from grace,  
Please let me dry those tears on your face.  
I give you my story, which is all that you ask,  
I've ended my bluffing and destroyed my mask.

A portal of light on the wall I see,  
And out steps four angels, all known to thee.  
They have awaited your coming these long years,  
And you greet them, eyes filled with joyful tears.  
Now as I watch you and tell you "goodbye",  
I now am the one with joyous tears in my eye.

Oh broken-winged angel, one of large heart,  
Thank you for forgiving me who tore it apart.  
I shall miss you, my friend, for the rest of my life,  
But I shall not forget you; not this time.


End file.
